


Kaoru

by didivina



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Mind Break, Sexual Violence, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didivina/pseuds/didivina
Summary: So even if it meant he would feel nothing but pain, he just wanted the sensation of His touch, His skin against his.





	Kaoru

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic that I wrote many years ago on fanfiction.net. I still think it's good so I wanted to put it here. It's the only thing for Hetalia I will be posting (most likely, there's a humor fic I may post as well later.) But I'm still mostly just an Osomatsu-san writer. Don't judge me too harshly, this was written 8 years ago. (Also they don't let me post it as Japan/Hong Kong so oh well.)

He tasted a mix of blood, saliva and the tatami mat that his face was pressed harshly against. The skin of his cheek was beginning to be rubbed raw from the rough friction between his face and the ground. The hot liquid that was his own blood ran down the slope of his back, towards his neck, and along his sides, the many open wounds bleeding without restriction. The heat snaked around the intricate knots that kept him from moving, tied a little too tight and every movement chaffing the flesh of his back and chest and arms. Even though he was nearly blinded by the pain overloading his senses, he didn't want it to stop. In fact, he revelled in the feeling and taste of his blood spilling across his bare skin, he loved the searing pain of the cold metal as it ran across his flesh and split open his raw skin, sharp enough to make clean cuts every time so the scars would be thin. And above all else he craved the feeling that he was being stretched to the point of almost ripping as he was pounded into, completely unprepared.

With each beat of his heart he felt more of the hot liquid slowly flow along the already well-run paths, although at some particularly rough thrusts, the blood would splatter little tiny drops onto the mat that he would, if he could reach them, lick up greedily, although making sure he wasn't seen. Even when the thrusts weren't particularly rough, a sharp pain shot up his spine and every cell in his lower half cried out, trying to tell him to get it to stop. But he didn't want it to stop. Even when he knew he would never get the traditional pleasure out of it; **He** was too cruel and made sure to avoid what was guaranteed to make him see stars, the good kind. Instead he derived his pleasure from that cruelty, from the roughness, from the lack of regard for his bleeding, battered body. It never seemed to matter how bad off he was. As long as he was breathing, **He** would do this cruel, pleasurable thing to him.

It always started off the same. **He** would enter the dark, windowless room that he was trapped in. **He** would then feed him leftovers of whatever **He** had eaten that day. Next, **He** none-too-gently disrobed him and would proceed to unwrap the bandages that had been used to stop the bleeding from the last time, usually from just the night before. After the examination of his cuts and scars, the ropes would come out of the bag **He** brought, dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. The knots and patterns were always intricate and complicated to the point where he knew he would never be able to remember how they were made. Always just a little too tight, **He** would then push him forward onto his face, hips up, and spread his legs. He never saw it but he could feel the cool air that was stirred to a soft breeze as **He** undressed and the smooth material fell to the floor with a whispering of fabric against fabric. After that moment, **His** hands would go to rest on his hips in a gesture that felt almost gentle, and they wouldn't leave that spot. Of course that gentleness was only an illusion as, without any forewarning, **He** would force himself all the way in, the hands on his hips only there to keep him in place.

It was at that point where things would deviate. Most of the time, but not all, a blade of some kind was involved to make cuts along every part of him, even those too sensitive to imagine. Another thing that would differ would be the way he was thrust into. Sometimes it was excruciatingly slow, done mainly to tease the boy because even to this degree was **He** cruel. Other times it was so hard and fast, he could barely breathe and his lungs would feel about to burst from the struggle. And at yet other times, the pace was moderate, and so much of it seemed like what true lovers would do, except that **He** would never touch him to give him release. He would always have to find it himself without the assistance of hands. But it was these times of moderation that he desired most. It was the most cruel thing **He** could do. Because it was the closest to what he really truly wanted. He wanted most of all to be embraced, caressed. Above all else, what he wanted was to be loved by **Him**. Because, despite everything that was done to him, he knew. He knew that his heart desired **Him** more than anything, ever. He also knew that it would never happen that way. The most he could hope for was for **Him** to never grow bored of him. For this war to not end, because no matter the outcome, he knew he would be abandoned, either to explore the newly acquired territories and those who came with it, or given up, given back to those who would demand his return.

So even if it meant he would feel nothing but pain, he just wanted the sensation of **His** touch, **His** skin against his. He hungered for it and if the only way to have his appetite filled would be through mutilation and the too-rough entries, he would gladly take what he could get. And he would always remember the beginning of it all, the more gentle treatment, the soft kisses. It was foolish to hope that there was any way to get back to that point. But it was probably at those times where the deeply buried seed of affection had been brought to the light and tended to. It could have been anyone, but it was **He** who had cultivated it, whether **He** was aware or not. And that seed blossomed into the flower now so desperate for the warmth that was **His** touch. And though it really was beyond hope, he still secretly prayed to whatever of the gods would listen that the gentleness and the softness would return. He had felt… loved, if only to the slightest degree. After all, **He** had fought so many so fiercely to make him **His**. And he was indeed **His** ; Body, mind, and so very much soul. Heart.

That's why he relished every little detail of the rough ritual they were going through at that very moment. He could feel the delicious heat of **His** sex moving in and out of him, the unbelievable friction. But he knew he wasn't supposed to be enjoying it. It was never about him and how he felt. That was inconsequential. It was all about **Him** , and if he wanted him to enjoy it, he would make him enjoy it. Though that never seemed to be the case. It was as though hurting him and depriving him of pleasure was what **He** enjoyed about it. That meant, he should not enjoy and he should never vocalize if he did. But he couldn't help it when it was at that amazing moderate pace. He wanted to respond in every way possible, but his purpose was to stay in his position and just let **Him** do what **He** wanted how **He** wanted.

As the motions continued, he could barely keep himself from crying out, moaning into the mat under his head. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and he knew that it meant how close he was to his release, despite the lack of attention he was being paid. He looked up at best as he could at **Him** and **He** seemed to be getting close as well. Every time he managed to see that expression, he felt his heart's affection bloom just the smallest bit more. That face was being made because of him, even if he was nothing but a lowly tool.

The thrust started to become more erratic, yet somehow that moderate pace he loved so much was being kept. It was somehow during that erratic rhythm that either **He** slipped up or He mercifully decided it was finally time to let him feel the pleasure he hungered for. A single thrust passed along that spot within him that made him shudder and see stars, the good ones. It was all he needed to finally release. At that moment, a long low moan escaped his lips. "Master." His muscles clenched involuntarily around **Him**. The combination of the moaned word and the sudden added pressure seemed to be all **He** needed to send **Him** over the edge. As **He** released, he fell forward, not caring that **He** would get **His** chest covered in blood. **His** face was directly in front of his. He could see **His** face flushed from the exertion and panting. He wanted nothing more than to kiss **Him** at that moment, but he knew his place. His eyes opened and focused on him, still breathing shallowly. The smallest of smiles graced **His** lips and his heart skipped a beat.

"My Kaoru."


End file.
